Tuesday, August 27, 2013

I was
upset and irritated over the last week for having been conned into a discussion
on a topic in which I have no interest nor have any knowledge. My naivete was
exposed. All because of this guy, my beard, he got me into it. I had made the
mistake of letting his feelings known to everyone as per his own wish and now
see what it has got me into. Last time after I had narrated the events leading
to his existence he cribbed, cringed and protested that his side of the story
was not heard. So under the threat of his continued irritation and making my
life miserable I went ahead with making public his views. Ever since he has
been amiable, in fact certain smoothness has been evinced in his existence. But
tonight I was irritated and scratched him awake.

“What’s
the problem, you seem annoyed?” he asked

“Boss,
I have had enough. You be where you are and I shall remain where I am, no more
conversations.”

“Now,
now don’t take any drastic steps. You know we have to co-exist and there is no
way you can stop talking to me. You will acknowledge that I have been behind
all your inspirations. At times when you have got stuck in the middle of a
sentence, you have gently nudged me and I have responded. Tell me why you are
so desperate today.”

“See
ever since I told them how you feel they seem to be more obsessed with your
existence and in the process I am slowly fading into obscurity. There is this
guy, whom someone has termed a beard maniac, I am frightened for his obsession
with you is so deep that he seems to talk only about you. Of course you have
been called all kind of names something like Namo, which I have been told by
some is a sort of bad word, while others feel that it is an endearing term. They
have even insinuated that you have great aspirations and are trying to outgrow
and dominate the scenery. A number of people like you and an equal number do
not, for they are jealous that they do not have your looks or traits. These people
say that you hide a number of things for example my face. But I know otherwise,
you have given me a new look by hiding my insignificant chin. The only solution
I see is that you should start sprouting on their chins faster than they can shave.”

“Still
I do not see why you should be so upset. See it is a choice that they are free
to make, whether to have me or not. You remember you were reading something
which was sent to you by one of your friends. Didn’t it say that the beard is a
man’s follicular armour and provides a visual display of physical strength and
stature. So it is for them to decide whether to have me or one of those smooth,
and slippery faced guys. But strangely I find that they have also started to acknowledge
my existence. But you can still see through to their baby face, they try to
have me on their face to hide their vulnerability. Anyway I think that the people
are smart enough to judge which is the more original and a beard with deeper
roots. Let them choose the best beard that they want to have.”

“All
well said. You seem to be basking in your own glory. But I am all confused when
people say different things. Only the other day I told you that I let you grow
for a period of seven days only after which I trimmed you because I read
somewhere that it turns on the opposite sex. Even so I did not have any luck on
this count. Today I read that even though all those famous personalities have
started growing beards and longer ones, that ‘while 92 per cent of women
preferred men without beards, 95 per cent of women found men with a stubble a
turn-off’. Now what do I do? I cannot afford to have you of my face for you
have always been there at least for a major part of my life. Of course in the
same article it was written that Freud’s personality was accentuated by his
beard which was a ‘hallmark of phallic power’. I am comforted by the fact that
Freud must have with his knowledge of the workings of the human mind decided to
grow his beard. But what really galled me was this statement from the same
article that ‘Men with beards may be having more fun but its not with women’. Doesn’t
it bother you?” You see in all these, a person should be in a position to choose
what he thinks is best for him, whether they want a beard or not. To hell with
what you hide or not, after all it is my face.”

He was silent for sometime and then said “well
I understand your dilemma. You feel that it is going to be a battle of the
beards but you can wait and see who gets shaved first.”

“I am
sure that the beardless will be relentless in their attacks on the bearded ones
and vice versa. But that’s all politics isn’t it?”

He
said “I can only say hold your ground, I mean your face” and went to sleep.

Saturday, August 24, 2013

Tonight
I was staring into the darkness surrounding me, sitting at my desk with the
table lamp on, lost in thought, yes you can be sure of that, for my eyes were
open and the drowsiness had still not set in. Of course some people have the
capacity to sleep with their eyes open but I had failed to learn the art of
sleeping with my eyes open. It would have stood me in good stead back in
college for I was invariably caught while sleeping in class, especially during
the periods after lunch. But I remember that there was one subject when I never
got pulled up for this offence and that was during the ‘Magnetic Fields and
Tensor Analysis’ class, not because the professor taking the subject was a very
liberal minded person. You see that when he started talking about magnetic
fields, electromagnetic waves and the applications of tensor analysis (pardon
me these are the only words I remember from what I learned back then) I used to
experience fields and waves around my head and a buzzing sound very conducive
to inducing one into a trance, try it some times it works. The next best thing
for experiencing such spiritually elevated states I found was during the period
of probation in the Bank when I was asked to read the Book of Instructions and
the Exchange Control Manual. I never went beyond the first page. In fact I found
that next to lifting the accounts ledgers, handling the Book of Instructions did
in fact contribute to whatever muscular structure (believe me it was not great
but adequate) I developed, though the same cannot be said about my job
knowledge. I am sure a lot of my colleagues in the bank would also be grateful
to these manuals for their physical well being.

Well
coming back to the professor like I said it was not because he was a very
considerate man that he allowed me to sleep in class, it was because he was so
immersed in the fields that he wove on the board and around him and the class,
that he never really noticed whether anyone was paying attention or not. But all
this had a problem which I realised only when I sat down to study for the
periodical class tests, for when I opened my book I could never make head or
tail of what I had written in my note book. You see I used to take only one
thick notebook to class, a sort of master book in which I used to take down the
notes (this was to save the trouble of lugging around a pile of books subject wise).
One had to just open the notebook to find out which classes I had slept and the
duration of my sleep. Only the first word in each line would be visible as slowly
the writing would taper of into a scribble as sleep overtook me. At the end of
the line when the pen struck rough surface on the desk, I would wake up and the
process would be repeated over again. The pen acted as control mechanism to
wake me up at the end of the line. It was may be because of this that I became
a night bird, an owl (anyway not a wise one as all owls are supposed to be).

The
art of sleeping with your eyes open was perfected by one of my colleagues. I realised
this when talking to him one day and getting no response shook him up and he
awoke with a start and started where he had left off earlier and now here I mean
the conversation and not the sleep. Then there was another one who would dose off
in the middle of a sentence leaving it unfinished, not only that for before
long he would be snoring.

In the
good old days when we were used to travelling by buses, my wife used to
complain that as soon as we were seated I would fall asleep. Of course since
she was there next to me we could get off at the right place. But it did happen
to me when I was travelling by the suburban train back from VT to Chembur, I kept
awake till Kurla one station before my destination. But I do not know what
happened for I when I woke up I had passed beyond and had to catch another
train to come back. Luckily this time I did not fall asleep and got down at
Chembur.

Like
the good old pen which I talked about as a control mechanism I have found that
the wall and the bars on the window of a bus are equally effective. I cannot remember
the number of time I have banged my head against the window bars on the bus,
though painful it was effective to make sure I got down at the proper place. Banging
against the wall is something that I have developed over the last few years
(don’t mistake that I have resorted to this to overcome my frustrations or set
things right in my head) especially while watching the television. It has woken
me up in the course of watching a movie or a serial so that I could pick up the
trend of what was happening on the screen. Of course whenever I ask my wife as
to what had happened in the interim she would glare suggesting that I should go
back to sleep.

But
all this sleep, when others are awake vanishes when others go to sleep. That’s why
I am still awake writing all this. I have tried understand the genesis of all
this and I have found that all this dates back to the time when I was in school
and Macbeth was one of the books on our English curriculum. I had the whole
book by heart and was even nick named as Macbeth though I did not commit any
foul deed. But may be this soliloquy of Macbeth was what did me in –

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

“You
have been conversing with your beard (imagine, no wonder people find that
weird), with your Destiny (please I think they have had enough of that stuff
about everything being destined) and only God knows (sometimes I also wonder
who or where he is and what he knows) to who else. But you have never really
sat down to talk to me. I wonder why? I do have a faint idea that it is because
you are frightened to do so. Seriously, I feel abandoned.”

This
happened when I sat down for my meditation this morning. Though for a moment I
was upset, I recovered and said “honestly, I never really thought you would be
so offended. I always considered that you and I are inseparable, that you have
always been with me through whatever has happened or is happening. So let me
set things straight and for a start we shall have a conversation tonight and I
promise to clarify whatever you believe that I have kept away from you”. I felt
a slight vibration and I knew that he had receded back to his abode within and would
resurface again tonight to put his questions to me.

‘At
the stroke of the midnight hour’ he came and sat before me on a pile of books
near my computer. Bald, bearded, bespectacled and the size of the glass of
water on my table, that for a moment I thought that I was looking into a
miniature mirror. He smiled as he looked at me and said “well here I am, and
shall we talk?” I said yes and settled down for a long chat.

“I
am not in the habit of asking too many questions. I always let you do the
talking, to me of course. I can always make out when you are truthful and when
you are being dishonest with ‘yourself’, that is me. So I am here to hear you. For
a long time I have been intrigued watching you performing things which you
never seriously believed in. Why so?”

“Seriously
can you be more specific? I am unable to comprehend what you are saying. I always
thought I am doing what I believe in.”

“Well,
for instance I watch you as you sit before that cupboard of yours containing
some idols and pictures of various Gods and performing certain rituals before
you close your eyes and start your meditation. You have always maintained that
you do not believe in rituals then why?”

“Oh
that! If you say that cleaning the idols, decorating with flowers, burning an
incense stick and making an offering of food as a ritual, you are right. I do
those things. Have you ever wondered why I remain silent at those times, so
silent that I do not even wake you up? Of course you must have been awake, for
how else could you have observed that I do these things. But you will agree
that I never did disturb you at such times.

When
I am in the process of performing these things I have found that even my mind
becomes silent. There is no thought as to the futility of the entire exercise. I
do it because one fine day it just happened and I asked myself why not, as long
as I do not have an agenda. You are right when you pointed out that I do not
believe in ritualistic prayers. But let me clarify that I do not believe when
there is an agenda attached to the exercise. It has become a part of my daily
routine like my daily long walks and it keeps me focussed. Now in the recent
past I even visit the temple next door daily after coming back from my walk and
having my bath. You had noticed that though my wife goes to the temple daily, I
used to go there only occasionally. One fine day I asked myself, why not? Not because
I believed that the God over there was going to help me tide over crises or
grant me boons. I found that it was a sort of commitment that I made for you,
myself. I recovered a sense of purpose and discipline creeping into my daily
activities. I would call it ‘Zen and the Art of Praying’

Long
ago I read Herrigel’s ‘Zen and the Art of Archery’ where he says

“The archer ceases to be conscious of himself as the one who
is engaged in hitting the bull's-eye which confronts him. This state of
unconscious is realized only when, completely empty and rid of the self, he
becomes one with the perfecting of his technical skill, though there is in it
something of a quite different order which cannot be attained by any
progressive study of the art”.

You will ask me what bearing this has
on what I am doing. Well though you pretend, I know that you are aware what I am
trying to explain. The key operating sentence here is ‘This state of
unconscious is realized only when, completely empty and rid of the self …..’. This
entire process has aided me in the process of my daily meditation.

It is through years of practice, a physical activity becomes
effortless both mentally and physically, as if the body executes complex and
difficult movements without conscious control from the mind. Zen emphasises the
suspension of all judgemental thinking and letting words, ideas, images and
thoughts pass by without getting involved in them. I would call that one hour
in the morning my Zen time. I believe that each one of us has his own Zen time
whether it is gardening, cooking, making tea or maintenance of your motor cycle
(refer ‘Zen and the art of Motor Cycle Maintenance’, Robert Pirzig’s classic
novel). One sentence from the book still keeps ringing in my head “Other people
can talk about how to expand the destiny of mankind. I just want to talk about
how to fix a motorcycle. I think that what I have to say has more lasting
value”

So you see that I am still doing what I
believe in and I also believe that each one has his own way of expressing his
commitment to a cause he believes in and through which he hopes to attain a
freedom from the bonds that tie him down and realise his entire potential.”

As I finished I found my Self sitting
on his perch in front of me with his eyes closed. For a moment I thought that
he had gone to sleep with all this long winded speech of mine. So I cleared my
throat in a bid to wake him up. He slowly opened his eyes and said “so you
thought I was asleep? I heard every word you said, I always knew it but I wanted
it to come out from you. You will see there is more clarity now.”

“So what next?” I asked.

“For now, that is enough, I can see
your eyelids drooping. Isn’t it late now? We shall keep the rest for some other
day. I am watching.”

Friday, August 16, 2013

Let me
start with a disclaimer “The contents of this post has nothing to do with the
book ‘Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance’, but I can always say that it
provided the inspiration”. The book itself is a modern day classic which was published
first in 1974. Written by Robert Pirzig it is a philosophical novel in which
the author explores the Metaphysics of Quality. Two types of personalities are
brought out in the book, one being in the present moment and not on rational
analysis and the other seeking to know the details, understand the inner
workings and master the mechanics (in this case motor cycle maintenance). One
sentence from the book still keeps ringing in my head “Other people can talk
about how to expand the destiny of mankind. I just want to talk about how to
fix a motorcycle. I think that what I have to say has more lasting value”.

So really I
do not have anything philosophical to say and nor am I going to post something
profound. As I was cleaning my bookshelf today, and that I do infrequently, I took
this book out and while dusting it, turned to the first page. I usually sign
there and write the place of purchase and date. This was purchased on 13th
May 1982 at Bombay
(Mumbai only later on), a good five years after I had bought my motorbike and that’s
where it all started.

After living
together for nearly twenty two years (I mean me and my motorbike) I watched him
being ridden away by that Parsi mechanic who of course had through the years
was there to ensure his well being from time to time, again I am talking about
my bike. You have to understand that he was very masculine what with his robust
body and a roaring voice and everyone
called him ‘Yezdi’. I still do not know what it means, even the Wikipedia could
not give me any satisfactory answers. But of course what’s in a name ‘an Yezdi
by any other name will still be an Yezdi’ (sorry borrowed that from Shakespeare
– I hope that’s right). Well any way he had to go and all partings are painful.
It was like leaving behind a pet dog behind with someone, for you cannot take
him wherever you go (I hope the loved ones do not take umbrage at this
statement for I thought that this was the closest analogy I could give).

Well the Parsi mechanic
disappeared with my bike into the distance leaving behind a vacuum in my life
(let me clarify that I am talking about my motorbike and not the Parsi lest I am
misunderstood). Like all flashbacks (like in the movies) my mind went back to
that day in November 1977 when we first met. You see that the motorbikes are
always the first acquisitions as soon as one gets confirmed in the job (I am
talking about those days when acquiring an Yezdi motorbike was the second most macho
thing to do, the first being the ‘Bullet’. Taking my physical build into
consideration I had to settle for the Yezdi, also I rationalised (this is where
the rational part comes into existence) that in case the bike has a puncture or
suddenly stops it would be easier to push it to the mechanic’s shop than the ‘Bullet’
and also he was less costly. So I hope you get the point – wives come in only
next. But in my case, wife came first and then only the bike (two months later).
In case you are wondering whether I had acquired him after waiting for the
dowry, I am sorry to disappoint you for I did not receive any (I hope my wife
does not read this).

For the next nineteen
years he served the family, which grew from two to four over the years
diligently, till finally taking note of his advancing age and his increasing
protestations on the road, I had to go in for a car to accommodate all of us. But
I never let go of him for the next three years. I gave him a new look, painted
and plated and a thorough check up, of course by the same Parsi gentleman. He did
a very good job for I think that he was sure that one day he would be taking
him away.

We shared a lot of
great moments together and a few mishaps though nothing serious. I will never
forget the day when he suddenly sat on the road and refused to budge. Though I coaxed
him by cleaning his spark plugs and other little things which would have him
all excited once more, to become active (don’t get me wrong on this also) and
take me back home, nothing worked. So I had to engage an ambulance (a mini
truck) and have him taken to his doctor for treatment (the Parsi one of
course). It appeared that he had had a stroke and his shock absorbers had given
away. After he was discharged I took him home and put him in his corner. I
should also place on record here that he also contributed to my physical well
being and fitness. I remember a particular episode when I was trying wake him
up by kicking repeatedly and the guy next to me at the vehicle stand looked at
me, sitting on his new snazzy bike with auto start and said ‘That’s always
the problem with these old bikes, see I just have to press a button for mine to
start’. He was a plump overweight little fellow and I was of a slim and healthy
build. What audacity I thought and replied ‘see that’s why you are like what
you are and I am like what I am’ and as my bike started with a roar I looked at
him and smiled. He had got the message – no one fools with my bike!

I cannot relate all the
adventures we shared and the feeling of togetherness which grew over the years,
but for me he was something very real, alive and kicking. So it was sad to see
him go, but that’s the way things are and we move on and I moved on to my car. Well
that’s another story.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

My friend said “You
sound more honest when you bring humour into your writing”. This was after
reading my post ‘A Conversation with My Beard’. Perhaps the most telling
comment came from my daughter “The best post ... there is something about the absurdity of
it all ... life lessons hidden in plain sight amidst all that crazy rambling
and imagery ... total honesty in humour --- like a "Hearty Laugh". It
is very hard getting a comment out of her and like all daughters (that’s a
presumption) they can be your harshest critics. They will say what they feel,
sometimes brutally frank, for they know you well enough. So I sat down to read
my post again to reassure myself that the message was not lost. She had got
this one right, I mean the metaphors hidden there. But it was also a fact that
the humour of it all could strike a chord with the reader.

When I was in school we
had four books for English literature – drama, poetry, grammar and a collection
of essays titled ‘Patterns of Prose’ with selections from various authors like
Stephen Leacock ,Jerome K Jerome and others. Of all that I had to read for my English
literature class my favourite was ‘Uncle Podger hangs a picture’ from Jerome k
Jerome’s book ‘Three Men in a Boat’. To this day that episode of uncle Podger
is still fresh in my mind not only because of the unbridled humour but also the
felicity with which the author narrates it. Podger’s final statement at the end
of the episode - “There you are” he would say, stepping heavily on to the
charwoman’s corns, and surveying the mess he had made with evident pride. “Why
some people would have a man in to do a thing like that!” keeps coming back to
me especially now ever since I retired and offer to help my wife about the
house. Wiser counsel prevails as she does let me handle certain things which
she feels will not be worse off even if I did handle it.

A few days ago
(everything happens a few days ago, isn’t it. I still can’t get down to the
fact that it happened only yesterday and am still recovering the colour on my
face which had turned red after the event) the electricity shut down suddenly
in my house. This is not new in Chennai for we are used to power shut downs,
but mercifully we know when the shutdown is to occur. It goes off for two hours
at a certain time during the day (I should admit that things have improved and
the power shuts down unannounced). So right from checking whether there was
power in the neighbours flat to yours truly paying a visit to the Electricity
office and giving a piece of my mind that we have been prompt in paying our
bills and leaving them flummoxed, then coming back home bringing the local
electrician to have a look at the fault, I was filled with a sense of purpose
(maybe I wanted to prove to my wife that I am not afterall a couch potato, that
of course does not include the various times I have had to sit at the dining
table peeling potatos feeling like Sad Sack) and energy and of course perspiration
and frustration and panic, for my wife had stopped cooking and was waiting for
the power to be switched on. She had great faith in me for I was proud of
telling her that I was an electrical engineer from one of the most prestigious
Institutes in the country. The electrician came went directly to the switchboard
and turned on the switch and the power was back, you see the circuit breaker had
tripped because there was a short circuit in the washing machine (which was
switched off after identifying the fault). I smiled at him and he went away
without charging anything for his services. And as I slowly turned my face to
my wife who was standing at the kitchen entrance and the look said it all “so
what did they teach you back at the institute?”

I remember the
time when I offered to dust and clean the ceiling fans. I went up the ladder
and started dusting them with my wife waiting down there to ensure I did not
fall down for there have been enough episodes in the past of a different nature
where my bravado had landed me on my butt. I did sway here and there but at
last the mission was accomplished and I came down the triumphant look on my
face as if to say “There you are”. When I came down my wife laughed and I asked
her why. She asked me to have a look in the mirror. The dust and cobwebs had
settled on my head and for a moment when I looked in the mirror it appeared as
if I have had a hair transplant.

Of late, my younger daughter says I am zoning out and
am more in la la land (I sincerely do not know what it means, but I guess she
wants to say that I am becoming absent minded) and my wife sincerely believes
that I am a bit hard of hearing, as she has to repeat whatever she wants to
convey at least twice. I do not disbelieve them for they appear to be pretty
serious when they say this, but of course they have a good laugh when my
response is quite contrary to the reaction expected by them. May be they are
seriously concerned that the signs depict the onset of Alzheimers. The last
time when my brother and sister-in-law had come home, my wife and she exchanged
notes as to how their husbands are slowly becoming deaf. Of course I and my
brother (who is sixteen years elder to me) could hear every word of what they
said. My brother looked at me with a twinkle in his eyes and said in low voice
and which only I could hear “Let them continue to believe that, it suits us
fine doesn’t it? Selective hearing that is the key.”

As you grow older you come to appreciate those little
things and laugh at your own idiosyncrasies. It is when you are able to laugh
at yourself you move towards a total acceptance of who you are and life becomes
easier and comfortable. Your relationships become genuine, for you do not hide
much.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

This
is the last poem in the first compilation of poems written by me over the years
‘Secrets of the Soul’. Absolution is defined as the act of freeing one self
from blame or guilt, a release from consequences and obligations. Though the
word itself has its origin in Christian theology, the concept is equally
applicable to all religions – a confession and a pardon. Absolution to me is
the state of having emptied yourself of all the, secrets of your soul and now
you stand shorn of the cloak you have been wearing, exposed and undaunted.